


Mind Games

by tranimation, weapon13WhiteFang



Category: Alan Rickman - Fandom, Die Hard (1988), Die Hard (Movies), Rickmaniacs
Genre: Christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 11:14:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5537771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tranimation/pseuds/tranimation, https://archiveofourown.org/users/weapon13WhiteFang/pseuds/weapon13WhiteFang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the hostage situation at Nakatomi Plaza, the international terrorist and mastermind, Hans Gruber, after the retrieval of the detonators, amuses himself by playing a series of mind games against Holly Gennaro McClane. Suspense: Complete. Rated T, for mild language and sexuality.</p><p>IN MEMORIAM: Alan Rickman (1946-2016)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mind Games

God, her feet were killing her.

Balancing herself precariously on her heeled pumps, the new director of corporate affairs appointed at Nakatomi Plaza, Holly Gennaro, inhaled at length to gather herself. She may have been worried but far from cowed. She had to present herself with all the appearance of quiet confidence and gentle authority for the sake of the others. Her head was held high, her back straight, and her hand was pressed reassuringly upon the shoulder of an elderly gentleman. But for the life of her, she could not recall his name, only that he had been a guest of her employer, Mr. Takagi — now deceased, to the Christmas party, as she escorted him and three others towards the office bathrooms.

The group consisted of two men, two women, and her, and it was the largest number she was permitted to assist. Any more would give cause for suspicion, and their forefingers were too unnervingly close to the arched triggers of their assault rifles for comfort to allow any risk of that.

The man — an elderly Japanese gentleman — sputtered and shuddered against her, his knees knocked about so much that he was unsteady on his stride, as the guards — the larger named Kristoff and the smaller named Fritz — trailed along behind them, peevishly grumbling back and forth to one another in German. Holly uneasily watched the two men duck inside the men's room followed by Kristoff, while Fritz led her and the other women into the ladies'.

She sneered disdainfully at the hoggish leer Fritz betrayed towards one of the women — Cheryl, from accounting — whilst she scuttled herself into a narrow stall with a mousy squeak. He chuckled darkly, as Ginny, her personal secretary, presented him with a wary look before she, too, ferreted into a stall for the fifth or sixth time. Honestly, she couldn't help it, for she was eight months along and had a temperamental baby bearing down atop her bladder.

Holly ran her hand up her arm to ease the prickling gooseflesh beneath her sleeves. She was cold. If it was from the air conditioning or her nerves, already frayed, she was uncertain. Her eyes wandered to the mirror, as she caught a glimpse of her appearance upon the reflective glass. Her hair was wild and her blouse was skewed, missing a button or two, on account of the brawly roundup when the terrorists entered into Nakatomi. Otherwise, she looked fine, all things considering.

"Beweg dich!"

Holly jolted when she heard the thunderous slam of Fritz's hand against Cheryl's stall, causing the poor woman to scream after the toilet flushed, and she felt her anger seethe.

"Lay off!" the redhead hissed at the man whom eyed her in annoyance, as Cheryl barrelled out of the stall towards the sink and washed her hands, while they frantically trembled under the faucet.

She aided the pregnant Ginny out of the thin stall and reached out to lay a calming hand on Cheryl, but was cut off.

"Beweg dich!" barked Fritz yet again, tigerishly grappling at the two women, which caused Holly to topple over her aching feet. "Jetzt!"

"Bastard, stop it!"

Charging herself off the tiled floor, Holly stormed after Fritz out of the bathroom and nearly collided into Kristoff who abrasively shoved the males ahead, causing the elderly gentleman to cry out and coil fearfully. The commotion of the incident reignited a panic amongst the partygoers. Some rose to their feet, others curled back, and few began to sob and shriek. Yet another hour's worth of soothing words and genteel appeasements wasted.

Kristoff, the larger of the guardsmen, snorted under his breath and seized the collar of Holly's blouse, feeling another button pop off, whilst she was endeavouring to lead her tiny group to join the rest of the party.

"Tell them to keep quiet!" demanded he, unconsciously pointing his weapon at the throng of guests whom screeched and wailed louder than before at the sight of the unscrupulous barrel.

"If you'd stop manhandling everyone, they'd be more cooperative!" she returned snappishly, her tone rising to match her temper, but Kristoff tightened his fist about the pink fabric and lift her on her toes and she gave out a cry, more of a catty hiss, of indignation.

Whether it was a call of instinct or a form of protest, or perhaps a combination of the two, her nails raked at the ruffian's hand at her shoulder, burning trails of peeled skin from her polished fingertips, and guardsman let out a gnarl of fury and an ail of pain. Flattening his hand, he reeled it for a backswing, but something caught his wrist.

The guardsman's entire body tightened, all his muscles tensed at once, at the realization of what, or whom, writhed tightly at the end of that wrist:

"Now, now, ein Freund von mir," a voice, a steel baritone, interrupted from behind. "We mustn't lose our temper."

Kristoff flared his nostrils behind his shoulder to mask the audible swallow that descended thickly from his throat.

"Check on Theo's progress, and watch out for Mr. Cowboy. We may have the detonators back, but he's still a nuisance, and one we shall deal with accordingly."

The brute snapped his head to Holly with a knit upon his brow before releasing her, not without the tiniest resentment of a shove, and headed for the elevator, leaving Holly with the guests behind her and her eyes before the instigator of their predicament, the brains of the operation: Hans Gruber.

With a supple tilt of his head, the German leader lazily turned his attention to Holly with a raised eyebrow. Feeling his gaze journey along her dishevelled form, he closed in upon her in a half-step, towering above her. She stiffened, her skin crawled and her blood stilled, when his hands reached out and gathered the front of her ruined blouse. He aligned the collar neatly and pinched the wrinkles carefully, as his fingers glided down the lining and his nail brushed against her exposed skin; and yet, in one hand, he held his pistol in view, idly wavering it inches from her ear.

For a fraction of a moment, the temptation to snatch the weapon crossed her mind, but then heard the supple click of the safety catch being switched off. Just at the corner of her eye, she could see his forefinger held loose upon its trigger and its barrel aimed behind her, purposively staged before the crowd behind her. If she reacted, or even moved, he could pull the trigger without a care of whatever and whomever ended up at the bullet's target.

"Leave. _Them_. Alone."

Her voice was low, lower than a whisper, and was coloured with a guised threat within its tone. Raising his eyes to her, he paused his arrangement. She squared her shoulders back, allowing the fabric of her blouse to slip from in-between his fingertips, and lifted her head half-assertively and held her breath.

Hans, seemingly pleased, cracked a false smile. A chortle emitted from the back of his throat before he — unabashedly — ran the back his fingers up the side of her neck, along her jaw, and tucked a few loose strands of her auburn hair behind her ear, pulling his handgun away and returning the safety on with an audible click, as she baulked, tasting a foul bitterness moil behind her inner palette, at the sheer invasiveness of his touch and the earthy whiff of his cologne.

He was testing her, playing games with her — and judging by his reaction, she must have passed.

"And how are we enjoying our generous accommodations?" he teased with a serpentine grace of a viper.

"Generous enough to let us all go safely?"

" _That_ , Miss Gennaro, would indeed be generous," he paused for a moment, thoughtfully pursuing his lips, before he loomed closer, overtop her, with his eyebrows peaked gravely. "But that would be too easy, would it not?"

"Fine," she replied flatly, "then how about allowing a few go, just a few, for medical attention?"

"I was unaware of any physical injuries."

"There's a couple with heart conditions, one with kidney disease, two or three are in need of insulin, an asthmatic, and did I mention the pregnant woman before?"

He feigned interest, bored of yet another laundry list of grievances to meet his attention, and then added thoughtfully: "And you?"

"What about me?"

"Aren't you going to barter an escape for yourself?"

Narrowing her eyes at the man who began to slither around her, glaring down at her, his hand was half-tucked into a pocket while the other still handled his pistol. Holly had a sense that she was being tested again, being dissected, being goaded into one of his mind games. To place it simply, Hans Gruber was trying to get under her skin and, as much as she loathed to admit it, it was working!

"Frankly, I'd like nothing better than to go with them — to go home, eat dinner, take a shower, and crawl into bed." The timbre of her voice shifted and simmered bitingly, as she continued: "But I wouldn't be able to sleep at night, or any night afterward, knowing I had abandoned the rest to your _generous_ care."

He chortled in his usual form of postural civility: "Personal integrity, such as that, is rare and admirable one at this day of age. It would be beneficial if more corporate industrialists took an example from you, Miss Gennaro, to prioritize the needs of the people through meritocracy rather than plutocracy that your nation has devolved to."

She arched a curious eyebrow.

"I read about it in _Newsweek_."

"I do my job and I'm good at it," Holly replied evenly. "That's about as far as my interest in political philosophy goes."

"I believe you," he soothed, flashing yet another smile, that _infuriately_ sanctimonious smile, at her after a pause. "That is, I believe the first part."

"How Machiavellian of you."

"And how Confucian of you. I suppose that comes from working for the Japanese."

She fixed him with a glaring look. Fritz, his chief guard, tapped at his watch and Hans answered with a curt nod before returning his attention to the woman before him.

"Now, as much as I would enjoy discussing political philosophy with you, Miss Gennaro, as you are the most intriguing of conversationalists, I am on a schedule. If you want to be helpful, continue doing exactly what you have been doing these past few hours. Understand that we are in charge here and you are in no position to make demands. Do as we say, just as we say, and everything will be fine."

"I don't believe you had any intention of letting us go."

"Oh, and what makes you believe that?"

"What are the detonators for?"

He gave pause to thoughtfully lick the corner of his lips with breathy chuckle. "Negotiations."

"Liar," she hissed. "Serves me right to aim for your heart. It would be your least vulnerable spot."

"Perhaps if you aimed a little lower, you may have gotten further."

Her disgust was instantaneous. For a moment, and only a moment, she had forgotten about the guns, the threats, the fearful uncertainties, and she simply reacted, with sound and fury, without temperance nor forethought, as her flatten hand hurled forward and struck his face, with a deafening smack of skin to skin. Before she could realize the gravity of her action, the butt of Fritz's assault rifle rammed against her stomach, leaving her to collapse into the floor. The entire room had fallen into a stunned, breathless silence, broken by the gentle sound of the water fountain and her desperate wheezing of her breath.

The German clicked his tongue, admonishing her as an adult would scold a disobedient child, and watched her stagger to stand, leaning her back against the wall to balance herself.

"You are nothing but a conniving bully!" spat her words, sneering. "What do you want with us? Does everything have to be a card game with you?"

"A card game, hmm?"

With a purse of his lip, he took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and, with his free hand, held her jaw still. She could not move any further, her heels swept against the wall, and her eyes reamed; but, to her surprise, the soft fabric tidied a smudged corner of her lipstick.

"What an interesting observation," seethed he, dangerously close. "And an interesting simile. However, I prefer to describe it more as a duel. It's the romantic in me, I think. Two superb swordsmen with highly sharpened blades: I thrust, you parry. You thrust, I parry."

"I prefer my simile to yours."

"And why is that?"

"A duel requires equal terms." Leaning her head against the wall, she continued in a low tone: "Besides, you just can't play games with other people's lives."

"I'm sure you say that to all the small-time companies that you've gobble up to get here."

"Yo, Hans!" came a voice, with a distinct American accent, over the CB. "Hans, you better heat up that miracle, because we just broke through the number six, and the electro-magnet came down like a fuckin' anvil!"

Rather than throwing himself into a rage at the news, he merely smirked and stepped away.

"Always a pleasure, Miss Gennero."

With a turn of his heels, he left her alone with the other hostages — and, of course, Fritz.

**Author's Note:**

> My friend Liz (weapon13whitefang) and I are huge fans of the DIE HARD franchise, primarily the first and third films. I confessed to her about my childhood "crack ship" of Hans Gruber/Holly Gennaro McClane and we discussed how this impossible romance through our many, many conversations online. The end product was this pastiche. Liz started it; I expanded it and added the ending (which went through four or five different editions); then we forgot about it and I reworked it some more about a year-and-a-half later.
> 
> Merry Christmas — and yippie-kay-yay, motherfuckers!
> 
> DIE HARD © 20th Century Fox


End file.
